


The Dimming Divide

by disapparater



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bodyswap, Drinking, M/M, Memory Loss, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 23:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4039480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disapparater/pseuds/disapparater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a night out drinking, you'd expect to wake up with a headache, but this is taking it a bit far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dimming Divide

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first (and hopefully not last!) [hp-concrit-fest](http://hp-concrit-fest.livejournal.com/). The original version, along with its concrit comments, can be read [here](http://hp-concrit-fest.livejournal.com/6977.html). What you're about to read is the edited version, which is much better and owes thanks to all those who left feedback during the concrit fest.

Waking slowly, Harry opens his eyes and is assaulted by bright sunlight. He quickly shuts them tight again as his head begins to pound with the tell-tale after-effects of a night spent drinking. He's always closed the curtains before, but apparently last night he forgot.

Burying his head in the pillow to hide from the daylight, Harry absent-mindedly notices that it feels fuller and more supportive. When he wriggles and stretches out, he can't help but wonder at the softness of the bed sheets; his skin practically slides over the material.

Frowning, Harry slowly lifts his head from the pillow and blinks open his eyes—gradually this time, adjusting to the light. He turns his head, winching at the pain the movement causes, but forever grateful for having his vision magically-corrected. He takes in the wide bed with its grey silk sheets, the white walls, the tidy desk in the corner, the thick black carpet.

This is not Harry's bedroom.

\- - -

Throwing open the heavy curtains to let in some light, Draco assesses the room. As if the rough, unyielding sheets hadn't been enough, he is met by the sight of a cheap-looking four poster bed, clothes strewn all over the floor and an offensive red and mahogany colour scheme.

Suddenly queasy, Draco swallows down the feeling, but is grateful when it isn’t accompanied by thoughts of whatever he was drinking last night.

Draco glances across the piles of material on the floor, assuming his clothes will be neatly folded on top. When he fails to spot them, he mentally curses in disgust. He blindly rummages through the piles, trying not to look too carefully, and throws on the cleanest things he can find—ripped jeans and a faded red t-shirt. Despite the shabbiness, they fit him quite well. Draco also looks under the pillow, but his wand isn't there.

With the mess, lack of taste and abundance of red, Draco assumes he's slept with a Gryffindor. He can't ask though, because his lay wasn't in the bed with him when he woke up. On closer inspection, Draco frowns at how smooth and undisturbed in the other half of the bed looks.

This was not a one night stand.

\- - -

Harry feels uncomfortable in the black trousers and blue shirt he found hung over the back of a chair and hurriedly pulled on without stopping to think. Now, he opens the bedroom door apprehensively. It's somewhat unlikely he'll find Dementors or evil wizards on the other side, but his wand hadn't been in the bedside drawer, and that leaves him a little skittish.

The hall outside is just as neat as the bedroom, and Harry takes a step out into it more confidently, having seen nothing and no one waiting for him.

Harry moves swiftly towards the stairs he can see at the other end of the hall, and his bare feet are silent against the cool wooden floor. At the top of the staircase, Harry stops abruptly. He can hear voices downstairs, light and casual, and Boy Who Lived be damned, Harry's not going down there yet.

Backing off, Harry looks around at the other doors along the hallway. One of them should be a bathroom.

It's not that Harry wants to hide.

\- - -

In the bathroom, Draco closes the door and leans back against it in relief. The voices had been too loud, too excitable and somehow too familiar. He just needs some time to figure out where the hell he is and why the hell he's here. Draco's sure he didn't get so drunk that he would have needed to stay at anyone else's house. Let alone one this messy.

Taking a deep breath, Draco perches on the edge of the bathtub. His eyes fall to the toilet and he gives the room a half shrug and moves to use it. Far too exhausted to stand, Draco sits on the toilet and tries to remember what he drank last night.

Pissing does not remedy the situation, nor does it restore Draco's memories. As he steps from the toilet to the sink, Draco looks around for clues. The sandalwood shower gel and disposable razors give away nothing that Draco hasn't already concluded.

Draco shakes off his wet hands and glances up into the mirror over the sink. He can't help but take a step back at the sight.

It's not his own reflection looking back at him.

\- - -

Harry stands, flabbergasted, as Draco Malfoy's slack mouth and wide eyes look back at him from the mirror. As Harry shakes his head in disbelief, Malfoy's head moves too. When Harry's hand comes up to cover his mouth, so does Malfoy's.

Slowly, and with trepidation, Harry moves his hand higher. He watches Malfoy's hand in the mirror as it rises, sees Malfoy's hand follow Harry's own as he reaches to touch his hair. Harry can see Malfoy stroking his blond hair, and Harry can feel, under his own hand, the softness of it.

Taking his eyes away from the mirror, Harry holds out his hands in front of him. He hadn't stopped to pay them any attention, keen as he was to get dressed and get out, but now he does. The fingers are long, the skin is pale and the nails are well kempt. Harry is looking at Malfoy's hands.

Now infinitely more self-aware, Harry registers how different his body feels. He is lighter and slimmer. He feels only an inch or two taller, but somehow everything looks different now.

Harry is Draco Malfoy, and that is not possible.

\- - -

Draco fists his stubby-fingered hands into his thick, messy black hair and tries to calm down. He tries to remember what the fuck happened last night. What he does remember is that he did not get so drunk that he forgot he was Harry Potter.

Pacing the small bathroom, Draco only gets more frustrated every time he catches a glimpse of himself—of _Potter_ —in the mirror. He sits down on the edge of the bath again and looks down at his knees through the rips in the jeans. No wonder the clothes fit so well—they're Potter's clothes on Potter's body.

This is Potter's house. Draco would have wondered how he got in here, but the obvious and more pertinent question is how he got inside Potter's bloody body.

Almost of their own accord, Draco's eyes drift from his knees to his crotch. He barely considers it, just gives the room another half shrug and gets to his feet. Swiftly opening his fly, Draco doesn't hesitate; he thrusts a hand in and pulls out Potter's cock.

It's strange, having a mass of dark pubic hair as opposed to a smattering of blond, but other than that it doesn't feel strange to be looking down at Potter's cock. It's certainly less disturbing than looking at his face in the mirror. It feels heavy and soft in Draco's hand. His hand moves almost instinctively, a slow stroke up and down and—

A heavy bang and loud laughter from beneath his feet snap Draco from his thoughts. He'd almost forgotten he wasn't alone. In an instant Draco has shoved Potter's cock back into his trousers and is striding through the door. This time he doesn't pause at the top of the stairs.

The people at the bottom are not Draco's friends.

\- - -

Still not exactly sure of his plan, Harry attempts to walk right by the room the voices are coming from.

“Draco!”

Even if he hasn't just seen Malfoy's face staring at him from the bathroom mirror, Harry will always stop short at someone calling that name.

“Draco, don't ignore us, get in here,” calls a second voice.

Harry already knows who is at the other end of those voices, but that doesn't make the sight of Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini sitting in Draco Malfoy's pristine kitchen any less disquieting.

“Congratulations on finally getting out of bed,” Parkinson says before getting up from her seat.

“Quite a night, huh? Thanks for letting us stay.” As Zabini speaks, Harry's mind jumps to all sorts of conclusions about the previous night. He's just landed on 'threesome' when Zabini continues. “I promise we didn't make a mess of the spare room.”

“Of course we didn't,” Parkinson calls over her shoulder from where she stands in front of a toaster. “Our house might not be as pristine as yours, but we're not completely untidy.”

Not liking anything he's seen of Draco's house so far, Harry can't prevent his immediate response. “Don't you find this house too impersonal?”

The silence that follows is heavy and Harry is acutely aware of having said the wrong thing.

Eventually, with a deep frown, Parkinson says, “Are you all right, Draco?”

“I'm not—” Harry just manages to prevent himself making another impulsive mistake. “—I'm not all right. Like you said, it was quite a night. I think I'm still a bit pissed.” Finding himself with an opportunity, Harry asks, “How much did I drink last night?”

Zabini smiles and shakes his head. “Only as much as usual,” he answers, which doesn't tell Harry anything.

“Well, it was enough to leave me with a headache. I think I'll just go and relax...” Harry waves a hand behind him in vague indication “...somewhere else.” He turns to leave.

Except he doesn't know where to go.

\- - -

Why doesn't it surprise Draco that the Golden Trio are always together? It makes him feel a little sick that he is currently, technically, a part of them. At least he's the good-looking third.

“And then Percy said, 'Who let the Kneazle out of my closet?'” Weasley's loud laughter at his own joke drowns out Granger's polite chuckle, while Draco continues to stare lifelessly into the bowl of Rice Crispies that had been thrust in front of him as soon as he dared to sit down.

“You're quiet, mate,” says Weasley. Draco is simply surprised he shut his own mouth long enough to notice.

“Yes, you've hardly said two words. Are you okay, Harry?”

“I'm fine,” Draco lies before shoving a spoonful of puffed rice and milk into his mouth. It tastes horrible, but at least he doesn't have to talk.

“It's Malfoy, isn't it?” asks Granger.

“What?” Draco's sure, what with the contents of his mouth falling back into the bowl as his jaw hangs open, that he's doing an incredible impersonation of Potter right now.

Granger, for her part, looks knowingly smug. “Malfoy showing up last night. That's what's bothering you.” She folds her arms. “I'm not wrong.”

Recovering quickly, Draco sees this as the perfect opportunity to get information about the night before.

“Why would that bother me?” Draco gives a lazy shrug and slouches back over his bowl.

“Well,” pipes up Weasley, “you did start fighting again. At the bar. I'm pretty sure I saw the bartender giving you an earful.”

“Don't be stupid.” Draco's tone may have been on the wrong side of disdainful for a Potter impression, and the looks his comment inspires causes him to hastily add, “Malfoy was the one who got the earful.”

Appeased, Weasley and Granger go back to talking about ginger things (namely Granger's cat and Weasley's family). Draco's not even sure they notice when he slips out of the room.

The new information has not helped Draco remember.

\- - -

After picking a door at random, Harry finds himself in what would appear to be Malfoy's living room. He can't be sure because, like the rest of the house, it doesn't actually look that lived in.

Harry walks laps around the room, munching the tahini on toast Parkinson had thrust upon him (which he figures, since she thought she was making it for Malfoy, is not likely to be poisoned). Crumbs fall to the floor at his feet, but Harry makes no move to pick them up. Maybe later he can follow the trail back to his sanity.

As Parkinson had handed him the toast, she had told him—told Malfoy—to, “Stop moping. One fight with Potter never ruins the whole night, does it?” Harry had said something about not moping and fled the room.

The fact is, Harry can't remember any fight with Malfoy. They've had their fair share of fights when they've crossed paths at the Leaky, but still. It must have be one hell of a fight, if they'd somehow punched themselves into each other's bodies.

It's on Harry's third or fourth lap past the sofa that he notices the cushions. The sofa itself, along with the carpet and walls, are various grey shades, but the cushions— Harry's not sure there's a colour that _isn't_ there. One is fine stripes of dozens of colours, another has psychedelic circles, and a third is rainbow paisley. None of them match. Harry grins and plops himself down on the sofa. From there he studies the rest of the room more closely.

At first glance, the living room looks just like the bedroom: ordered, plain and lacking character. But the longer Harry looks, the more he sees. There is a comfy-looking chair in one corner with orange upholstery that Harry can't believe he didn't register before. There is a lamp next to it with an orange shade. The mantelpiece, though white, has intricate carvings of leaves and branches. The photos adorning the mantel are in subtle but mismatched frames.

Harry wonders if the bedroom and kitchen hold the same interesting details, if only he had bothered to look. He decides he likes Malfoy's house more than he thought. He also decides the house suits Malfoy; it seems harsh at first glance, but perhaps not entirely unwelcoming if you look closely enough.

Not that Harry's watched Malfoy that closely.

\- - -

Draco's not surprised when he finds that Potter's living room is just as messy as his bedroom, but he doesn't stop to ponder it. Instead, he tries to remember more about the previous night. He and Potter had fought, but all Draco really remembers is drinking. He supposes either of those often leads to the other.

As Draco thinks, trying to remember more of last night, he starts clearing himself a place to sit. He chooses a pile of crap that he's fairly confident has a chair underneath it and begins pulling things off. Unable to bring himself simply throw more things onto other piles of mess, Draco absent-mindedly starts folding and sorting the items he picks up.

This chair holds only clothes and, from the smell of them, they are clean. When he has made a pile of neatly folded t-shirts and jumpers, Draco places them back on the chair he has unearthed, and moves on to a new pile, almost without thinking.

Instead of clothes, this is a pile of Quidditch magazines. Draco automatically sorts them by title and date before leaving them—neatly stacked, of course—where he found them. The next pile seems to be unopened mail—fan mail, if the hearts and smiley faces covering the envelopes is any indication. Having no desire to read love letter written to Potter, Draco decides to leave this pile alone. Instead he moves on to a pile of books.

It's as he's sorting these alphabetically by author that he stops. He realises that although the room as a whole is a mess, and though the piles themselves are disorganised, the distinct categories of piles show some sort of effort on Potter's part. It's simply a casual effort.

Potter has always seemed so casual, with his clothes, his attitude and his habits. Draco used to find it hard to tear his eyes away from Potter, because of how at ease he has always been, and it has always infuriated Draco. Here in Potter's home, though, it seems to make a sort of sense.

Not that Draco stops tidying.

\- - -

It's when Harry is rooting, perfectly innocently, though one of Malfoy's obscenely organised cupboards that it happens. He sees a folder marked “Work” and a memory surfaces.

He had gone out last night to drink off an awful day at work. He'd been confined to his desk doing paperwork, which was bad enough, but Robards had been on his back all day about insignificant shit, and Jean on reception kept passing him messages that he then had to follow up. To top it off, the Ministry cafeteria hadn't had any chips left by the time he took his lunch. Beer had been calling Harry's name since about midday, and by 5:00 pm, he wasn't arguing.

Harry remembers being at the Leaky with Ron and having a drink. Hermione showed up late, as usual, after staying late at work, as usual. He can recall drinking two or three pints before his memory starts to get hazy. He can't remember Malfoy at all.

Throwing himself back on the sofa, Harry closes and squints his eyes, as though trying to see back to the previous night. His recollection is fuzzy and completely unreliable, but he thinks he remembers seeing a tall blond walk in before his memory blacks out altogether.

He even tries to remember if he saw Parkinson or Zabini, who were obviously with Malfoy, but he gets nothing. This is less surprising to Harry. If Malfoy had been there, there could have been elephants in tutus and Harry would only have narrowed his eyes and suspiciously watched Malfoy stride across the room.

Trying to remember is not getting him anywhere.

\- - -

Draco stands motionless with a photo of a very young Teddy Lupin in his hands. He has been sorting through a haphazard drawer full of photos, but this one makes him remember.

He had been dragged out by Pansy and Blaise to celebrate—after two fretful weeks—Pansy finally getting her period. She had spent the first half of the night cursing the very idea of motherhood and stroking her flat, empty stomach. By the time they got to the Leaky, Draco was tipsy enough to ignore her.

Potter and his friends were already there when Draco had arrived. They were sitting in the far corner, but he had felt Potter's eyes on him as Draco walked across to the bar. Draco remembers the familiar irritation slipping under his skin like an old friend. It happens often enough—the watching, the fighting—that Draco just assumes Potter thinks he's up to something. Even when out drinking with his friends, Draco can't just be trying to enjoy himself like every other patron. If it weren't for this motivation, Draco might even be flattered by Potter's attentions.

After getting their drinks, Draco had led his friends over to a booth as far from Potter as he could find. What happened next, though, Draco can't recall. They must have chatted and drank and laughed, but where a fight with Potter came into it, Draco still has no idea.

“We're off, Harry.”

For a few moments, Draco doesn't respond. When he finally looks up he sees Granger and Weasley in the living room doorway.

“Okay,” says Draco, only wanting them to leave quicker.

“See you at the Burrow tomorrow for lunch?” asks Weasley.

Draco nods. “Yep, sure.” Inside he is still racking his brain for details about the night before.

When he comes up short he finally realises there is only one other person who will know what has happened. One other person who might know _how_ the hell it happened. And that's who he needs to talk to.

Draco does not want to think about how horribly this might go.

\- - -

Harry is still laid out on Malfoy's sofa, the rainbow paisley cushion under his head. He has failed to remember any more about last night, and he's given up trying. Both the room and his mind are so quiet, he hears the footsteps as soon as Parkinson and Zabini leave the kitchen.

When the living room door swings open, Harry is already looking up, half expectant, half fearful.

He can see Zabini in the hallway, throwing on a jacket. Parkinson takes two steps into the living room before looking up from the watch on her wrist.

“Draco, we're—” She stops short at the sight of Harry, who hastily sits up and rearranges the cushions. “We're off now. You're not going to lay around moping all day, are you?”

“No,” says Harry, unsure why he feels so defensive. “Why would I mope?”

Parkinson raises an eyebrow and looks as knowing as Hermione does almost all the time. “There's always next Saturday; you know he'll be there.”

Harry frowns and shakes his head, but doesn't get the chance to ask any more questions.

“Toodles,” says Parkinson before leaving the room.

“Bye, Draco,” calls Zabini with a wave from the hallway.

Harry raises an arm in return as Parkinson and Zabini disappear through the front door.

As soon as the latch catches behind them, Harry flops back down on the sofa. He suddenly feels lonely. He might have been a little unnerved about the voices at first, but after waking up in a someone else's bedroom—in someone else's _body_ —knowing there was someone else around had been a strange kind of comfort. Now Harry is alone and he has no idea what he is going to do.

He imagines what Malfoy might do when he's alone in this house. He imagines Malfoy laying here on the sofa, in the shirt and trousers Harry now wears. Harry forces his body—Malfoy's body—to relax. He cocks one knee and leans it against the back of the sofa. He links his fingers and rests his hands across his chest. He looks down at himself, at Malfoy.

Harry can't say he isn't curious. He can't even say the thought didn't enter his mind while he was gazing at himself as Malfoy in the bathroom mirror. And now he's finally alone in the house...

He unlinks his hands and lets one slowly slide down his chest, over his stomach. Malfoy is slim, but not at all unfit, and Harry can feel the muscles of his abdomen. The tips of his fingers have just reached the waistband of his trousers. He slips them under—

There is a loud knocking at the front door.

Harry jerks his hand back so fast he almost smacks himself in the face. He jumps up from the sofa, but hesitates. Should he answer the door?

A second knock startles a decision out of Harry and he heads for the door.

He's got nothing to lose; this is Malfoy's house and he looks like Malfoy. All the same, he hopes it's only Parkinson, coming back for something she's forgotten. At the door, he tries for a natural Malfoy smile as he throws it open.

It's not Parkinson on the other side.

\- - -

Seeing himself grinning like an idiot as he opens the door to his own house is almost too much for Draco. He barges in, pushing himself to one side. Once he's taken five strides inside he spins around.

“Is that you, Potter?” he snaps.

“Malfoy?” is Potter-in-Draco's-body's eloquent response. “What the hell happened?”

“What the hell did you do, more like.” Draco advances on Potter, and now more than ever he can't help but notice their difference in height. Draco is not used to looking up at Potter, and in this position an inch or two feels more significant.

“I didn't do anything. I don't even _remember_ anything.”

“If you don't remember anything, then you can't know you _didn't do_ anything,” argues Draco. Potter looks back at him, bewildered. “And take that stupid look off my face.”

“Take that angry one off mine!” Potter retorts. “You’re the one who’s barged in, who knew I was here in your house—in your _body_ ; you must be the one who did something.”

The familiar rage that only Potter can induce is starting to surge through Draco, and this would be the moment he'd usually throw a punch, or a kick, or bunch his fists in Potter's shirt. Except it would be his own shirt he would be grabbing, his own shin he would be kicking, and his own face he would be punching. Draco hesitates; he knows how easily he can bruise.

The way Potter is clenching and unclenching his fists indicates that he is struggling with the same emotions. Arguments and violence have always been the instinctive outlet for the emotions they evoke in each other, but faced—literally—with themselves, that instinct is tempered.

If they can’t resort to violence, they’ll have to stick with expletives.

“Fuck you, Potter, I did bugger all.”

“Bugger all?” asks Potter. “The kind of bugger all you did the other week when you punched me in the kidney and made me spill three drinks?”

Draco doesn’t quite manage to keep the satisfied smile from Potter’s face.

“Stop making me smirk like that,” Potter demands.

“Fine, I’ll make you make my face smirk by reminding you of the night you stuck out your leg and made me trip with a tray full of drinks.”

Potter does quirk the corners of Draco’s mouth up, but only briefly. “As I recall, you kneed me in the balls as you got back up.”

“Oh yes.” Draco tips his head as he remembers the details. “And you still managed to get in a punch on your way down to cradle your crotch.”

“Fine.” Potter sighs. “We've established we're both as bad as each other when it comes to fighting, but what are we going to do about _this_.” Potter waves a hand at his face and then extends his arm and does the same in Draco's direction.

Draco sighs. Arguing didn't work, they can't fight, and reminiscing is getting them nowhere. Draco only has one other idea left. “Come on, Potter.”

With a frown, Potter follows Draco into the dining room. Draco motions to the table and Potter takes a seat, folding Draco's lithe frame awkwardly into a chair. Feeling graceless himself in Potter's more bulky, muscular form, Draco retrieves a bottle of Firewhiskey and two glasses from the cabinet before sitting down next to him.

“You think getting drunk again will help us remember what happened?” Potter sounds doubtful, but he takes the glass Draco offers him.

“Maybe,” says Draco before taking a sip of his drink. “We both drink at the Leaky nearly every weekend. We argue, we fight, we get kicked out. But we've never sat down and had a drink together.” Draco shrugs, looks away and takes another drink.

“When all else fails?” Potter doesn't wait for a reply, and Draco can hear him swallow before his glass is put down on the table.

There is silence for a long minute.

Draco finishes his drink and turns to see both himself and Potter reflected back at him from a mirror on the wall opposite.

“How the hell did this happen?” he asks, motioning to the mirror.

Potter looks up and their eyes meet in the mirror. “And why can't we remember?”

Although Potter looks quickly down at the tabl, eDraco sees a flicker of something on his face—on Draco's face. It's gone quickly, and Draco shakes his head, gazing back down at his drink.

“That could just be the alcohol,” Draco suggests as he picks up the bottle and pours them both another. “I did wake up feeling like shit this morning, and it wasn't only because I woke up as you.”

This time Draco catches a genuine smile from Potter in the mirror, along with an eye roll. It's a look Draco images people are quite accustomed to seeing on his face.

“I _never_ drink that much,” says Potter. “I woke up with a headache, but I felt sure that was simply because it was your head.”

Draco doesn't need to look in the mirror to know what his indulgent smile and shake of the head look like on Potter. It's this that makes him realise how much time he's spent, over the years, looking at Potter. He knows Potter's face just as well as his own.

“Have we moved from violence and curses to almost-friendly banter?”

“Friendly?” The way Potter says it, most people might hear hesitance, or even a little hope. But Draco knows the inflection in his own voice too well, even if he'd never hear it in Potter's. Potter is disappointed.

That's when Draco lifts his head and sees that look again. It's not one he can say he recognises on his own face, but coupled with that voice, it's clear what it means. It is a look Draco wonders if Potter would recognise; a look he's tried to hide during glances over at Potter in the Leaky. A look of interest.

It isn't simply friendship that Potter wants.

“Potter...”

At his name, Potter looks back up at the mirror. The look is still there, the look Draco has never wanted on his face, but that is somehow easier to bear knowing it is Potter putting it there. Draco sees himself in the mirror and wonders if Potter recognises that look on his own face—if he hears the tell in his own voice.

“Malfoy...”

As awkward as this situation should be, neither of them hesitates as they stand. They push their chairs away and turn from the mirror. They stand there in silence. Draco is looking into his own face, but somehow all his can see is Potter.

Without speaking, they let go of the anger they've been hiding behind. They let go of their hesitance and reach for each other. When their lips meet, it is with all the force and passion they have always put into their fighting. It offers more release than punching ever has, and Draco can feel the world shift. He doesn't know how long they spend kissing, the urgent give and take, fighting for dominance, for their own desires. Fighting—

In an instant they both pull back, and Draco realises the world hasn't shifted—he has. Draco is looking down a scant few inches into Potter's green eyes. They both speak at once.

“I remember.”

\- - - - - -

Without fail, it always happened on Brenda's shift. She could work the early shift on a Tuesday, and no doubt they'd both decide to come in for a tipple on their lunch break. A swift half and a half dozen heated glances and they'd have built up enough tension to feel the need to break it with a kick or a headlock.

The fact that Brenda had the busy weekend shifts did of course heighten the chances of having to deal with them, but she was almost sure they picked her shifts on purpose. If she was off ill or on holiday, Tom always told her the pub had been quiet in her absence.

In the 40 years she'd been pulling pints at the Leaky, Brenda had seen plenty of sights and had plenty of stories, but she'd never seen anything quite like this. It happened almost every weekend, and tonight had been no exception.

The Golden Boy showed up first. Before he and his ginger friend had even sat down or ordered drinks he'd been scanning the pub. When he hadn't found what he was looking for, his shoulders had slumped and he'd come to the bar for the first round. By the time the girl showed up and he started his third drink, he was sunk low in his seat, looking glumly into his beer. And it wasn't because he was drunk.

Everything changed when the Malfoy boy and his friends walked in. As soon as they caught sight of each other the atmosphere changed. Potter sat up straight, not tearing his eyes away as Malfoy pointedly ignored him on his sultry strut to the bar.

Brenda often wondered if—or when—their sexual tension would be broken with a kiss or a grope, rather than a punch or grab, but tonight she didn't bother wasting time on those idle thoughts. She'd been watching them long enough to know it wasn't going to happen unless someone gave them each a different kind of shove.

As much as Brenda begrudged the idea of helping them, she begrudged the idea of constantly having to break up fights and kick them out more. An outright ban would have been her first solution, but Tom wouldn't hear of it—apparently having two big names as regulars at the Leaky brought in a lot of business. So, plan B it was.

After an hour or so of long, heated looks, exaggerated attempts at ignoring each other and unbearable tension, the climax grew near. Brenda wasn't sure who moved first, as she was pouring a double Firewhisky at the time, but she'd seen them both striding across the room towards her.

As they waited to be served Brenda noticed them using the cover of the small crowd around the bar to jostle and elbow each other. It was the epitome of pigtail pulling. Brenda's exasperation was almost fond. Almost. Then they started exchanging words—insults, Brenda didn't have to guess—and turned to face each other, obviously gearing up for a fight.

By the time the crowd had thinned and they were standing at the bar they were shoving and pulling and Brenda had had quite enough.

“Pack it in, or take it outside.” Forty years behind that bar had taught Brenda to take no shit, and she didn't bother using her inside voice.

They stopped instantly. Potter with a fistful of collar, and Malfoy with an arm pulled back ready to land a punch.

“I'm sick and bloody tired of this,” Brenda told them. Slowly, with tight faces and suspicious eyes, they let go of each other and turned to face Brenda. That didn't appease her, though. “It's not just the fighting, you fools.”

They looked lost, no doubt wondering why Brenda hadn't simply thrown them out as usual. Baffling them even further, Brenda poured them each a pint. She had chosen the glasses carefully, having added her special ingredient ahead of time.

“What you need is to start seeing things from each other's point of view.”

Brenda placed the laced pints on the bar in front of her regular troublemakers.

“Now, why don't you boys forget all about what's gone on between you tonight.”

Brenda felt a rush of satisfaction as they both picked up a pint and took a long drink, knowing they were, indeed, going to forget.

“Go back to your tables and enjoy the rest of your night. Sleep on it. I'm sure you'll feel differently in the morning.”

Brenda had to suppress a knowing smile at the disbelieving looks they both shot her.

“Who knows, maybe you'll even kiss and make up.”


End file.
